


Other Things to Carry

by Penthesilea1623



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Impending fatherhood, Life Choices, Love, Past Violence, Romance, Suicidal Thoughts, a bit of angst, but a happy ending, murder of women and children
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 09:48:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6798976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penthesilea1623/pseuds/Penthesilea1623
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blackwall thought he had come to terms with what he'd done when he'd been Captain Thom Renier: after all, his Lady had pardoned him and forgiven him and he trusted her judgment above anyone else's.</p>
<p>But after the defeat of Corypheus he's given news that brings it all back and once again he finds himself tempted to flee, rather than confront it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unexpected News

Her name was Lian Lavellan. 

_Li-ahn_. The first time she’d told him she’d repeated it slowly in that lilting accent of hers and she’d laughed when his clumsy tongue failed to match the sound.

“It means a willow tree.” She’d explained. “I was born too early and in winter. My clan didn’t think I’d survive, so they give me a name to help me hold on, a strong name.” 

They’d been at one of the Inquisition’s camps in the Hinterlands, not far from his old cabin, sitting on a rock overlooking Lake Luthias. It was early still, the sun barely risen, but it was one of those perfect spring mornings, crisp and clear and fresh. The ground was still wet with dew, but when she’d joined him she’d lowered herself to sit beside him not seeming to even notice the damp. He supposed it was part of being Dalish – a life lived outdoors, for the most part.

The others had been asleep still. It had been just the two of them, sharing that perfect start to the day.

_Wouldn’t a name meaning ‘oak’ or ‘stone’ or something of the sort have been better for that_ , Blackwall had asked. 

She’d laughed again and he’d been mesmerized by the sound, clear and pure as the morning around them. 

“There’s few things in nature as tenacious as a willow.” She told him. “Their roots cling. They wrap around, they go down and stretch far. Willows hold on, and so did I.” She said with a sideways glance and the sweetest smile he’d seen in years: open and honest, nothing cloying or coy about it. It was the smile of someone who had no doubt that there was still goodness in the world, and the people who lived in it, still, in spite of everything that had happened to her, and to Thedas.

He’d been unable take his eyes from her.

So very young, he remembered thinking at the time. Barely more than a girl. 

Like so many others who met her he’d underestimated her at first. 

He’d seen the large, liquid dark eyes, the soft tender lips, the slender body, but he and the rest of Thedas quickly learned that there was a spine of steel beneath that slight form. There was intelligence and fierce determination, and a will that few could withstand. 

Tenacious indeed, like the willow tree she was named for. 

_Lian._

He rarely called her by her name though.

She was the Herald at first. 

And then the Inquisitor

And finally, when she’d refused to heed him, when she’d refused to turn him away, and when he was too weak on to leave her on his own, when finally he’d taken her in his arms to make her his, and had ended up completely and utterly and irrevocably hers instead…

Why, then she was the center of his world, the center of his being: she was his Lady and that was what he called her.

_My Lady._

He was entirely unworthy of her and as the months went on that knowledge gnawed at him like a cancer.

It was only by chance that he had seen the paper on Leliana’s desk when he had been giving the Spymaster his report on the events at Halamshiral. Only by chance that he had seen a specific name on that paper: 

_Cyril Mornay._

And seeing that name from the past, staring at it, he’d known at once and with absolute certainty what it was he had to do, the right thing, the only thing he could do that might ever make him worthy of Lian Lavellan, though he knew that in doing the right thing, he would lose everything.

He’d tried to tell her then, but he couldn’t. All he could do was make love to her one last time, wordlessly, desperately, and then leave her there in his bed over the stables, sneaking away in the middle of the night like the coward he was. Too cowardly to tell her to her face, he’d left her a note instead, incoherent and uninformative, and bound to cause her nothing but pain. 

As he rode towards Val Royeaux he regretted that he’d left even that. He should have torn it up and simply disappeared. 

The trip to the capital and his arrival there passed in an unreal haze, the days and nights blending into each other until the day of Mornay’s execution arrived and suddenly everything was crystal clear; where to go, what to do, what to say. It was easy, a relief almost, to climb the platform, and stop the execution. 

And then he’d heard her, heard her scream out his name, her voice almost unrecognizable: harsh, desperate, pleading. He’d searched the crowd for her and found her almost at once. Flanked by Varric and Cassandra and Bull, she’d look delicate and fragile, her face white with fear, her eyes filled with dread. She’d shaken her head, mouthing ‘no’, beseeching him, though she couldn’t know what it was he was about to do. 

He hadn’t wavered. He’d done the right thing, the thing he should have done all those years ago. He’d confessed his name, his crime and his guilt and turned himself in, letting himself be led away. He hadn’t looked back at her. 

She’d come to the prison, as he’d known she would and at first he couldn’t bring himself to meet her eye. 

When he finally did, the expression on her face, the hurt, the sorrow, the wounded betrayal that was almost childlike in its purity….

Looking at that and knowing it was he who had caused it was harder than turning himself in, harder than the knowledge that all that awaited him now was the hangman’s noose. 

_You weren’t supposed to find out_ , he told her. _You were to think I’d left. Wouldn’t that have been better?_

And for the first time that day, for the first time ever with him, her eyes had flashed with anger. Oh, she had a temper, he knew that though not many saw it. “You’d break my heart and call it better?” She’d said, her voice hoarse and breaking on the last word.

Didn’t she understand? He’d thrown himself at the bars of his cell, rattling them. _This is what I am!_ He’d told her. _A traitor! A monster!_

She taken a step back but had shaken her head, denying it, her eyes glistening with tears. “No. There is good in you. I have to believe that.”

She’d whirled around and left, and he’d thought that was it. He’d thought he’d never see her again and with that thought his inevitable execution was easier to bear.

He should have known she wouldn’t let him go so easily.

_Willows hold on and so do I._

She’d arranged his release and had him brought to Skyhold, not to be punished, but to set him free.

She’d risked her reputation, and that of the Inquisition. For him. For Blackwall. For Thom Rainier. Because she loved him. 

She’d stood in the Great Hall and declared it in front of all the Inquisition: traitor and murderer and monster that he was, his Lady loved him enough to risk everything to keep him with her. 

They were rarely apart after that. She stayed by him, unwavering in her support, though others in the Inquisition reviled him now – not all, but most. 

He couldn’t fault them for that, but in the face of his lady’s unhesitating support that changed, eventually, and if they weren’t welcoming him with open arms now, there was less spitting on him at least. Even if it hadn’t changed, it wouldn’t have mattered to him in the least. He had her love, the love of Lian Lavellan and that was more than enough for any man to have achieved in one lifetime. 

They fought Corypheus, and won and the celebration that followed went on all night. They’d finally escaped at dawn retreating to her chambers just as it was getting light. 

She was serene, peaceful, almost glowing with it, and why wouldn’t she be? The Breach was sealed. The weight of that responsibility that she’d carried for so long had lifted, and he could only imagine how she must feel. 

_We’ve been through so much..._ He started to say.

“The destination was worth the journey.” She said simply and looked up at him with a smile so radiant and filled with love that for a moment he had difficulty remembering how to breathe. 

_His Lady_. “I’ll never tire of how you see the best in everything, even in an old warrior like me,” he said reaching out and brushing his fingers along the petal smooth skin of her cheek. “But what have I done to deserve such a smile?”

The smile remained but she didn’t answer. Instead she wandered out onto the balcony and he followed her, watching her smile deepen at the sight of the sun coming up over the snow-covered Frostback Mountains. He slipped his arm around her waist, wanting to feel her, hold her, to know that she was there, alive and safe, and she moved closer, leaning her head against his shoulder. 

It was a moment of such joy, such perfection, that he could believe that there was a Maker, that there truly was forgiveness, for how else could there be this moment?

And then she spoke, her voice soft, her eyes fixed on the rising sun.

“I’m carrying our child.” 

And his heart plummeted.


	2. Mockingbird, Mockingbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackwall tries to come to terms with what he's learned.

His body went rigid. He dropped his hand from her waist and stepped back from her. 

She turned her head to look at him, fixed those large dark eyes on him, and he couldn’t look away. 

He’d thought her eyes were brown when he’d first met her, but he quickly realized they were green, the rich deep green of a forest, and when the sun shone on them the way it was right now, they lightened as if the sunlight was filtering through the canopy of trees overhead. 

You could lose yourself in those eyes: he had on countless occasions.

She was smiling at him, as if nothing were wrong, as if she hadn’t just yanked his world out from beneath him.

“You’re with child?” He asked hoarsely, trying desperately to keep the dismay from his voice, hoping he’d misunderstood what she’d said.

That hope vanished as she nodded, still smiling. “Yes.” 

Sweet Andraste, he’d never seen her face so blissful, never seen her so completely and utterly happy. 

He could only stare at her. Maker knew what expression was on his face. “How long have you known?” 

He must have been doing a better job of hiding his feelings than he’d thought because her smile remained. “I suspected when we were in the Arbor Wilds, but I didn’t know for certain until after we’d returned to Skyhold.” 

The Temple of Mythal. And unexpectedly he had the answer to something that had puzzled him since that day. “That’s why you didn’t drink from the Well.” 

The witch, Morrigan, had insisted she should be the one to drink and to pay the price, whatever that meant. He’d thought his Lady would refuse, but instead she’d turned to Solas. She’d barely spoken his name before he’d vehemently refused. 

And so the choice had come down to her or Morrigan. 

Blackwall had seen her wavering, and when she asked his opinion, he’d implored her not to take the chance. “I won’t lose you. Let the witch use the well.” He didn’t understand what the Well was, or what knowledge it might hold and he didn’t care: Lian Lavellan was too precious to be risked. He’d thought the plea would be in vain, he knew she didn’t trust Morrigan any more than he did, and he’d thought that she’d be unwilling to make that choice, but after an agonizing moment of silence, to Blackwall’s great surprise and relief she’d told Morrigan to go ahead and drink.

It made perfect sense now: while she’d think nothing of risking herself to help the Inquisition, she’d never considering risking her child. 

But that had been weeks ago.

“How far along…when will..?” He stammered still trying to process the news. A child. 

_Mockingbird, Mockingbird, quiet and still…_

His child. Thom Rainier’s child. The child of a coward and a murderer.

“About three months along, I think. I’ll start to show soon.” She told him proudly, resting a slender hand lightly on her lower abdomen. 

He still hadn’t moved or spoken and when she looked up at him her smile faltered for the first time. “You’re angry with me for not telling you sooner.” She made it a statement rather than a question.

“I’m not angry.” His lips felt strangely numb. Three months along. By winter he’d be a father.

_What do you see from the top of that hill?_

His hands curled into fists as he tried to blot out the song repeating endlessly in his head.

“Perhaps I should have told you sooner.” Her smile had faded away and she seemed hesitant, for the first time since he’d met her. “It’s just…we knew Corypheus wasn’t going to wait to attack. When I realized…” Her voice trailed off and she looked back at the mountains. When she spoke again her voice was low. “I thought it would be easier if no one knew. If I did fall, if I were killed, that it would easier to believe it had been only I that was lost.” She gave a slightly awkward laugh, forcing a lightness that he knew she wasn’t feeling. “Or perhaps I was being selfish and it was just easier for me if no one else knew. I could pretend that... I could…” Her voice broke off.

Dread prickled at the back of his neck, but for a different reason now. 

He thought back to that final battle. She’d been pregnant. She’d been tossed around, had boulders thrown at her, magic thrown at her, fire, and lightning, and more. She’d fought a dragon. She’d fought Corypheus, a self-proclaimed god, a darkspawn magister, and she’d done it all on her own in the end. 

She done all that knowing she was pregnant, and keeping it to herself so that it would be easier for the rest of them. 

Easier for him. 

He cursed and pulled her into his arms, smoothing her short dark hair, fine as silk, back from her face, kissing her, eyes and cheeks, forehead and mouth, and she started laughing, even as she pressed closer and slipped her arms around his neck.

“Your beard tickles.” She told him.

He couldn’t help smiling. She always said that, but as she did, she would brush her face against his, much like a cat seeking affection. 

“You’re well?” He asked anxiously. “Everything is well?” She was so small, not in height, in point of fact she was taller than most elves, but like most elves she was fine boned and delicate and slender as the willow she was named for: he appeared brutish by comparison. 

“I’m fine.” She assured him. “We’re both fine. There’s absolutely nothing for you to worry about. Women have children every day.” 

Not his children. 

_Can you see up? Can you see down?_

She went up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his, and he couldn’t help but kiss her back, wanting to be lost in the taste and the feel of her. So soft. So sweet. So good. The best thing, the best person he’d ever known. He pulled her closer, deepening the kiss, trying to block the song from his mind. 

_Can you see the dead things all about town?_

He picked her up, and carried her back inside, needing her, needing to do anything that would stop him thinking about this child. Anything that would blot out the memory of those other children. 

She was as eager as he. Clothes were pulled and tugged off, and dropped to the floor in a haphazard path to the canopied bed that dominated the room. She ran her hands over him, through the hair on his chest, over his heavily muscled shoulders and arms, her fingers lingering on the various scars that covered him. It had been that way from the start. She loved the texture of him, she’d said once, all the different sensations. Soon lips and tongue and teeth would follow hands, and he would do the same, marveling at the silky smoothness of her body as she savored the roughness of his. 

There was franticness to his lovemaking, an urgency that he couldn’t seem to control. He tried to apologize and she laid her fingers on his lips. 

“ _Arlath ma_.” She murmured.

His heart clenched in his chest. “I love you too.” He told her and he began to move again, and she met every movement, every thrust, until sensation overwhelmed them both and for a brief few moments he could forget.

She fell asleep almost immediately, curled around him, her head on his shoulder, but he lay awake, staring up at the canopy of the bed, until finally he slept as well.

And dreamed.

He was with his men, in the woods again, those woods, waiting for the carriage, that carriage again.

A dark night. No moon. The perfect night for an ambush. 

They could hear the carriage approach. Everyone was in position, ready and waiting, perfectly prepared, like the good soldiers they were, focused on the mission at hand, ready to obey the orders they’d been given. 

He was the only one who knew the truth. He was the one who’d traded his honor for gold, for a chance go higher. He’d thrown his lot in with Robert Chapuis and Chapuis was Gaspard’s man. As Gaspard rose, so would Chapuis. And as Chapuis rose, Thom Rainier would rise with him. 

There was no going back after tonight, he thought as the carriage came into sight. There was no stopping it now.

And then he heard the voices. Childish, young, so young, laughing, singing, singing the same song over and over again:

_Mockingbird, mockingbird, quiet and still, what do you see from the top of that hill? Can you see up? Can you see down? Can you see the dead things all about town?_

It was a common tune. You could walk through the streets of Val Royeaux on any given day and hear it a dozen times over, one of those odd songs with a cheerful tune and strangely gruesome lyrics that the children who sang it never seemed to notice. 

They weren’t supposed to be there. He thought, panic welling up inside him. It was supposed to be Callier, just Callier, on his own.

They were singing over each other, laughing harder, one of them rushing the song, another protesting, all of them laughing, all of them so young. 

Maker, they were young.

Blackwall stood there paralyzed. He couldn’t say anything, not now. He couldn’t stop it. If he stopped his men, if he’d changed his orders, they’d know, they’d know he’d thrown his honor aside for a handful of gold and the promise of advancement. They’d know he was acting out of nothing but ambition and greed.

He glanced around and saw them waiting for the order, for the go ahead, wondering why he was hesitating, and he knew if he waited any longer they’d realize something was wrong. Cyril Mornay was staring at him and he mouthed the word, _Captain?_ , questioning, waiting for confirmation that this was expected, that this had been planned, that this was what their captain ordered. 

And so, with a gesture Thom Rainier confirmed it. He gave the order. 

He stood there, numb, watching as the carriage was stopped, the driver and footmen slaughtered. The family locked the carriage doors but axes quickly took care of that. 

He heard their voices, pleading, and then screaming, Callier, his wife. 

The children. 

Maker they’re young. It became a refrain as he heard them crying, begging, screaming. 

The dream was familiar, the same dream, always the same dream, a dream that had haunted him for years, for decades, it never changed, always the same. 

Only this time it wasn’t. 

This time when he walked over to look at the corpses, to see what he’d done, to see what his ambition and greed had accomplished, when he searched the bodies, hoping that someone at least had survived, this time, when he turned over Lady Callier’s corpse it wasn’t her. 

It was his Lady. It was Lian, her eyes sightless, staring up at the sky, the front of her white dress soaked with blood, and there, clutched in her arms was a babe, his babe, he could just see a shock of thick dark hair that was matted with clots of blood and other things, and in this dream, this time, he fell to his knees beside them, pulling them both into his arms, throwing back his head and screaming his anguish to the heavens. 

He woke up, gasping for breath, drenched in cold sweat, looking frantically around him, looking for her, needing to know she was alive and well, that it had only been a dream. 

She was there asleep beside him: she hadn’t even stirred, and out of nowhere he remembered hearing one of his men saying that – that women slept longer and more deeply when they were carrying a child. 

Just a dream. 

It was late afternoon now and the shadows were beginning to creep into the room. They’d slept the day away, and small surprise after being up all night. 

He lay back down trying to will his heartbeat back to a normal rhythm and when he could breathe again he turned to his side to look at her. 

She was on her back, naked, tangled in the sheet, one hand resting on her belly, and he realized though she’d thought she wasn’t showing yet, there was already a small curve there and it was that her hand was resting on, already protecting her child. 

He stared at that small curve and that hand for what felt like hours, and then he rose, quietly so as not to wake her, and made his way to the stables, gathering up his things and shoving them into saddlebags, quickly so he wouldn’t have to think about what he was doing, what he was giving up and leaving behind. 

The stables were empty as he’d known they would be, everyone would be up at the Hall for the evening meal at this time of day, and he wasted no time in saddling a horse and riding out through the gate. 

He didn’t deserve them, her or the child, not after what he’d done, and he knew he wouldn’t be the only one who thought that. but no one knew about the babe yet. 

If he left now there was a chance that people might forget he was the father. It would be safer this way. They would be safer this way. 

They would be better off without him, his Lady and his child both. 


End file.
